


Two Wings & Feathery Heart

by Darthtanttrum



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Bloodlust, Family Angst, Hate Sex, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, blood and sex ensue, not to mention family angst, wherein kylo demands hux gives him a haircut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5957191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darthtanttrum/pseuds/Darthtanttrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s filthy, I want it gone,” the knight said. He didn’t move from Hux’s tight grip. He told himself he could, even in this state. He reached up and grabbed a handful of the blood matted hair. Hux took a long look at the disgusting mess of black strands, leaves, bark, and blood before shoving Ren’s face towards the viewport. He stomped, muttering to himself, towards the washroom. Kylo smiled at the debris of Starkiller Base, and closed his eyes.<br/>--<br/>Kylo Ren thought he left the Light to fall with Han Solo's body. But it's call keeps entreating upon his mind, the voice of Leia Organa telling him not to destroy those things he loves. He doesn't love anything, or anyone. Especially not Hux, who knows that only death waits for him as the commandants return to Supreme Leader Snoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Wings & Feathery Heart

He tried to have a droid do it first, but the moment it neared him with the razor and shears he sent a shockwave of Force at it with a jerky movement of his still injured arm. It flew back into the wall, clattering and sniveling its apologies. He banished it from his chambers without explanation, limping to sit at the edge of the bed and buried his fingers in long, still unwashed hair.

His own blood caked against the strands, its rusting color almost indistinguishable from the black filaments. He ran a finger over the new scar along the ridge of his brow, streaking down to rest close to the corner of his mouth. He hadn’t let the medbay droids do more than cauterize it, along with the other wounds dotting his body. Master Snoke spoke of pain as weakness leaving the body, as a source of power. So he left the wounds to heal themselves.

The blood was clotting his hair together better than the crossbow wound or lightsaber scorches. The half of his locks that matted under his face as he lay half dead and defeated in the snow were all but unsalvageable at this point. He glanced at the Imperial standardized clock above the door to his chambers on the  _ Finalizer _ . It was early, not even most of the stormtroopers would be on rotation, especially with so many dead or injured in the fall of the Starkiller Base.

But there was one person he knew would be up, even after having only just fled a dying planet less than twelve hours ago. Kylo Ren stood slowly, forgoing his mask, and stalked awkwardly out the door.

A droid would not do. He needed someone to bare witness.

  


“Who the hell do you-- ah, of course,” General Hux said as the pressurized doors of his suite opened with a hiss. No one was to disturb him, he’d made that very clear to the deck officer who immediately sent out an officer-wide report for fear of his job and neck. 

Obviously it was a blood-soaked Kylo Ren, who, among other things, really ought to be confined to a medbay bed.

The knight and the general stood opposite of each other, each in disarray from their usual collected facades. Hux was still in his crumpled uniform; no amount of tugging or smoothing could suss out the wrinkles. His bright ginger hair, usually slicked back into place, was tousled and hung somewhat in his eyes, which were currently glaring at Kylo Ren like an insect. It was supposed to make him feel small. It didn’t.

Kylo saw, clearly, where blood in various smudges and stripes along the front lapel of the general’s uniform had been poorly washed away, leaving dark wet stains against the gray. He saw too, from the brief intrusion into Hux’s mind that the marks were from Kylo’s wounds.

“What, did you try to carry me?” he asked, smirking as he showed his hand. He almost pushed into Hux’s mind further to find the image. Kylo was not much taller than Hux, but certainly much bulkier. Carry was a gracious word for the feat--drag was more likely. The whole absurdity of it reflected his calling upon the general of the First Order for a haircut. He stifled a chuckle.

The back of Hux’s neck turned pink, and he thought only of unfinished reports, as was his usual strategy to deflect Ren’s prodding. It didn’t actually help, they both knew, but it was a silent warning. “I checked you for vital signs,” he said. Ren pushed passed him into the antechamber of the general’s quarters. “Now what do you--for fuck’s sake, you’re filthy.” Hux waved a hand at the blood encrusted robes Ren refused to remove when he came to in medbay. It was a horror in the sanctity of Hux’s pristine suite. 

Hux had been informed of Ren’s departure from medbay from a brief on his datapad. He’d ignored it thinking it was the least of his problems. But of course, Ren made it the paramount center of his concern. Hux imagined the petulant man-child destroyed several surgical droids and killed at least one orderly before the wet weight of his figure went to his quarters to lick his wounds.  

“That’s why I’m here,” Ren said, cryptic as ever. He moved with a defined limp, favoring his right side to avoid aggravating the wound on the left, and sat down at the small breakfast table in front of the transparisteel window overlooking the shattered remnants of Starkiller Base. Asteroids tumbled through haloes of vapor around the shields of the _Finalizer_. Ren stared out at them without another word, blood oozing out of his robes to stain the muted chrome of the chair. Hux pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and closed the door.

Hux stood there in the doorway, watching the blood drip steadily from Ren’s garments onto his floor. “You should still be in medbay,” he said, knowing it would generate no response. Ren continued to stare. Hux sighed again, annoyed, and stomped forward. He slammed his palm on the table before Ren. The knight’s eyes flickered over to him a moment later, unperturbed.

“Cut my hair,” Ren said before Hux could ask the question forming on his tongue. He’d turned his attention back to the spiraling bits of world and water outside the ship. Hux balked. 

“ _ What?” _

“Cut my hair.”

“I might be tasked with getting you to Supreme Leader, but I’m not your fucking  _ help,” _ Hux snapped, slamming his other hand down on the table. He leaned over Ren, taking advantage of the rare moment where it was he who loomed over the other. Ren glanced up, dark eyes foggy from pain but determined. There was a flash, almost like a cut through the general’s psyche, as Ren invaded his thoughts. 

Unprotected there was the image of Ren in the snow, Hux wading through the knee-deep drifts to kneel down beside him. Panic and frustration painted the edges of the scene, like soft static at the other end of a communique. The Hux in the snow swore, and gathered up Ren in his arms, checking for a pulse at his neck. Ren’s bloodied face turned inward towards the warmth of Hux’s chest, smearing crimson across the gray uniform.

“Don’t you dare die,” Hux said through clenched teeth. He reached into Ren’s side wound with a gloved hand, feeling to see if any arteries were severed. “This is not going to be on me.” He found a pulsing artery, the cause for the massive blood loss that stained the snow. He pinched it off. Ren’s face twitched at the feeling but remained unresponsive.

The scene was cut off suddenly as Hux reached out and grabbed Ren’s face by the chin. Kylo hadn’t expected that, his concentration weak with his body. Hux glared down at him, furious at the intrusion. He was tempted to smack him, open-handed, right there like the disobedient child he was. Ren sensed this and the corner of his mouth twitched into the hint of a sneer.

“It’s filthy, I want it gone,” the knight said. He didn’t move from Hux’s tight grip. He told himself he could, even in this state. He reached up and grabbed a handful of the blood matted hair. Hux took a long look at the disgusting mess of black strands, leaves, bark, and blood before shoving Ren’s face towards the viewport. He stomped, muttering to himself, towards the washroom. Kylo smiled at the debris of Starkiller Base, and closed his eyes.

  


***

  


“It’s too long,” Han Solo said, waving the blowtorch in his hand dangerously close to his own shaggy brown hair. He flicked the visor back over his eyes and continued to weld some obscure piece of metal to the hull of his ship. Over the sparks, he opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by his son before he could form the words.

“It does  _ not  _ look girly,” Ben Solo said, with a stomp. His eleven year-old step had little physical impact on the cleared forest floor, but the trees along the rim of the clearing where the  _ Millenium Falcon _ rested shook with his Force. Han switched off the blowtorch with a huff, and walked forward to where Ben stood at a distance. The boy’s bangs hung in his eyes, tendrils of black curling around the bottom of his ears and brushing against the place where still slender neck met shoulders a bit too big for his size. Han removed the visor from his head, and let it hang from its leather tie around his wrist.

“You know the rule,” Han said, hands on his hips, knuckles just brushing against the hem of his vest. 

Ben heaved an exaggerated sigh that seemed to rustle the needles of the furs. Han simply pointed towards the edge of the clearing, in the direction of the small cottage where the Solo-Organa family stayed on their visits to Endor. Ben marched out of eyesight with his head down, plotting how to make his mother refuse his father’s wishes. 

Ben grew up knowing these woods without a path. His mother, loved dearly by the natives, had shown him how to tread without disturbing their quiet little moon that saw the beginning of the end of the Empire. He stepped over the delicate mushrooms and kicked at the odd rotting log to destroy its own tiny world, just to have something to do. He watched the rotting wood fly out around his boots and felt better. In the quietude of the trees, something tugged at the boy, a tether around his waist, drawing him away from the known route home. He’d experienced these tugs before, and knew from his uncle to trust them only begrudgingly. There was still Darkness in the galaxy, he’d say, that would want Ben to follow it down into its belly. 

His hair fell in his eyes as the pull obscured his even steps. Ben’s boot caught on a gnarled root, and he fell hard against leaves and dirt, the debris tangling into his shoulder-length hair. He bit back a cry, tasting copper in his mouth. He would not be found by his father like this. He would not listen to more jokes at his expense. He licked his lips and stood, feet moving deftly as he turned away from the direction of the cabin.

The walk lasted more than an hour until the tether went slack on the brink of a small clearing. The stunted, dead trees around the perimeter bore scorch marks pointing towards the center of a large pile of ash. The air was thick, and too still. The local fauna were silent and the wind held its breath so as not to move a single mote out of place from the funeral pyre.

Ben knew at once he stood at a grave without knowing how he knew. It was the Force, whispering to him like so many voices without sound. It beckoned him forward, inviting him to be the first to kneel at this grave for almost thirteen years. The white ash billowed around his legs, clinging to his dark slacks. He shivered. It felt like hands clutching at the fabric. He kept his eyes forward as long as he could, not sure if it was braver to do so or to look down into the center of the grave. But the Force was pushing against his forehead, a blood vessel throbbing their as it became physically painful to resist the urge.

Dark eyes flickered down and were trapped by the image of flecks and bits of charred bone. He’d never seen a dead body before, his mother had made sure of that even with the few lingering conflicts with old Empire supporters that sprung up around their various home systems. A bubble of hatred for her overbearingness rose in his throat, acidic and mixing with the still lingering taste of blood. The emotion was not entirely his own. His stomach lurched and he gagged, but kept his breakfast down. He steadied himself, wiping sweat out of his eyes, and continued to inspect the bones with a gulp. He knelt.

The piece of vertebrae closest him was almost pearly white, cleansed by a great fire, but not put to rest. No, too many pieces of this shattered, long dead person poked out from the dust. No rest here. Come closer. Ben shuffled closer, a bare hand reaching into the pile instinctively. Shaking fingers sunk through the silken ash until they found a perch. It felt heavier than it should be, needing both hands to retrieve the twisted metal and plastoid wrapped around the partially intact skull. 

A knife sliced through Ben’s mind as he gazed upon the face of his grandfather. It bled images of a man engulfed in flames, screaming his hatred for the man who was his namesake. A young man slicing through the bodies of masked sand scavengers. A child gazing upon a beautiful handmaiden and vowing to marry this angel someday. Until this moment, Ben had only seen a single holoimage of his maternal grandfather--a solemn wedding picture as he stood beside the beautiful senator he did indeed marry. Luke would never let him look at it long, claiming the Dark side was already there in his eyes. Ben’s vision came back to his present, staring directly into the bug-like sockets of the skull’s mask. He swallowed back a sob, knowing that this was the true face of the man whose ashes clung to his tunic.

_ Ben, you know me.  _

_ Yes, grandfather. _

_ I wish you did not have to learn in this way, but your mother and uncle have chosen silence in which to heal, and there is no time. _

_ I don’t understand. _

_ You are not safe, even among them, grandson. Perhaps especially so. Can you feel it? _

And Ben could, now, that anxiety lodged into his throat every time he looked towards a certain place in the sky or space from the cockpit of his father’s freighter. It filled his sense, nostrils filled with the smell of carrion. The tug that brought him here stank of it, but of something else, something sweeter, like the rotting wood he destroyed so eagerly earlier. 

_ Please help me, grandfather.  _ Ben was shaking on his toes, still crouched there holding the skull over the bed of ashes. He kept his eyes shut tightly in concentration.  _ Guide me away from it, from its pull. _

_ Shadows lessen towards the Light. A foolish notion. One must step out of its beam to see where the shadow ends. No Light can not create shadow. _

_ I don’t understand! _

_ Perhaps you’re not meant to. Not yet. _

_ No, please, don’t go. Show me what I must do. What is coming? Grandfather? _

Ben’s thoughts were dreadfully silent for a moment. Until.

_ I will show you.  _

Ben’s arm was on fire, moving from his hand cradling the plastoid encrusted bone, all the way to shoulder. His eyes flew open, seeing an arm that was clearly his but too big, holding a sparking and hissing lightsaber the color of the fire that tinged the edges of his vision. His arm was intact, but pain shot through it, radiating from the saber. As if the act of holding it condemned him.

He tore his eyes away at the sound of a shrill shriek of a child. She stood not ten feet from him, screaming with eyes blown out, unseeing. Her jedi robes were stained with the blood of the bodies around her. All children. Ben. No, it was someone else, Ben was no longer holding the saber that rose to strike down the last of the jedi padawans. He was merely bearing witness.

When he came to, Ben could still hear the little girl’s screams over the rain falling down around him. His whole body ached. At some point he stood, holding the mask and skull like a shield. He slowly lowered his arms. The screams continued. His jaw hurt. He touched it with an ashened hand and felt the vibrations of his strangled voice. He closed it with a snap, and the last lingering traces of the girl was gone.

He didn’t dare look at the mask, but it was transfixed to his hand. It was so heavy. He tucked it under his arm inside his jacket so he didn’t have to look at it any longer. With the mask obscured, the forest of Endor returned around him, fading into focus through the curtain of steady rain. 

Ben noticed he was dry. Not a single drop of water touched the ash around his feet. He stepped off of it, thankful for the sudden deluge that matted his hair to his face. He looked up towards the towering tops of the dead trees, longing for his grandfather’s voice, to understand what this vision meant for him.

But the forest was silent besides the gentle pattering of raindrops. 

It was the Ewoks who found him, eventually, having at once heard his screams. The forest was darkening around him when the little creatures approached, chanting prayers under their breath and not daring to step into the clearing circle. They beckoned for Ben to leave, but he recoiled at their soft voices. They were so small, like those children. He could end them all, right there, with the power surging through his veins.

The Ewoks, who had helped to raise this human child during his time on their moon, waited patiently for Ben to stop his pacing, his random shouts of aggression. One of them, a rugged, brown thing whom his mother called Wicket, stepped into the clearing despite the protests of the others. How similar to that innocent girl he looked, as he offered a paw to the boy. He could kill him right there. But it was still Ben in that forest, not the teenager who will forsake that name. He took the creature’s hand, and let them guide him through the woods back to his mother and father’s cabin.

He met their anger and relief solemnly, obeying the order to strip out of his filthy clothes and sit in his room while they talked. Neither of them noticed the slight bulge in his jacket where the mask and skull still rested in the crook of his underarm. He looked at it again finally as he took off the muddied jacket. It looked less menacing here, by the light of the lamps. It was silent. He hid it away in the space under his dresser drawer, not just to hide it from his parents, but himself as well.

Twenty minutes later, after he’d put on a fresh tunic and slacks, his mother entered with a short knock. He sat with his growing legs over the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. Leia did not ask where he had been all day. She held in her hands a pair of scissors. 

“You’re hair’s a mess, Benji,” she said, using that nickname he was growing to hate. “Let me cut out the dirt and knots.”

“I don’t want to cut it,” he said, his voice flat and not sounding his own. He saw his mother flinch.

“Okay,” she said. She moved carefully, seeming to know where to step in the room so as not to threaten Ben. She sat down next to him on the edge of the bed when he seemed to bristle less at her presence. “Why don’t we make a deal?”

Ben looked up at her, thick wet strands of black hanging in his face. 

“I’ll give you a trim, but we’ll keep most of the length, all right? Maybe just a few inches to get that muck out.” Young Ben considered this for a moment, and then gave a curt nod. 

His mother’s fingers were soft on the nape of his neck. “You’re okay,” she repeated over and over as the tufts of hair fell to the cabin floor. “You’re safe.”

It was the first time he knew she was lying.

  


***

  


Hux’s ministrations were not nearly so gentle. Kylo cursed as a particularly hard tug pulled at the skin on his forehead, aggravating the wound that stretched from his brow to his opposite jawline. It threatened to burst open once more.

“Oh, shut up,” Hux said, but quieter than usual. He was tired, his vision blurry, and it took too much concentration not to stab Ren in the head. If Ren wanted a haircut, he’d get one. That didn’t mean he’d make anything about it decent.

Hux used his knife to saw at the handfuls of matted hair, sleeves of his officer’s shirt rolled up to his elbows.  It’s not like he was going to use his nice scissors, and he certainly didn’t trust himself not to take the rest of Ren’s face off with some of the laser tools the droids used to cut hair. It was no quick affair. The minute hand ticked away on the Imperial clock above Hux’s door as he got into a rhythm. Ren appeared to have fallen into a trance, or, stars forbid, into shock. Hux resisted the urge to check his vitals again, not because he wanted to keep the knight alive per se, but because he knew he wouldn’t live through Snoke’s rage if he did. 

Sure that Ren was busy with his own thoughts, or possibly dying, Hux allowed his thoughts to wonder. He was slightly drunk, having poured a stiff drink the second his doors closed. He drank it down in one gulp and smashed the glass into the garbage chute. It was the only expression of his defeat he’d allowed himself thus far, and likely the only he would at all.

Everything two generations of his family had worked toward was gone because of a handful of rebels and Kylo Ren’s theatrics. Snoke had not said the nature of Ren’s defeat when he sent him out into the crumbling glaciers, but he imagined the base would still be there if Ren had done is bloody job. Hux slit off a patch of hair that stained his hand red. He glowered.

Everything. Two generations. Everything. He thought of his father standing on the steps of Arkanis Academy, giving a rousing speech to his latest cadets. It would never compare to the speech Hux himself gave on Starkiller, before destroying six worlds with an order. The power he had over his army, his weapon, his  _ galaxy  _ seethed through his teeth. His father was rousing. Hux was ruthless. But once again they stood as equals on steps destroyed. They were both just stories now, their victories short lived and co-opted by magicians. 

Hux slashed at another bit of hair, finding a bit of comfort in destroying the smoke-like consistency and veneer of Ren’s appearance. He thought of the quick and painfully precise haircuts of his youth.There would be no pause with any flinch as strands were pulled, lasers brushed too close and hotly against the nape of his neck. His hands worked with a same carelessness, though at one point Ren made a noise like a frightened child, quiet and keen. He paused then, peering around to see the knight’s eyes closed and his face in a fitful dream, before continuing. 

Hux thought of his mother, the marked contrast of those academy-issued cuts. He heard the way she’d soothed every worry, anticipating trims not by the length of his hair but by the subtle need in him to be touched without it feeling threatening. She always knew more than she would ever say, and it was something that made Hux grow to hate her over the years, starting with that day when she lied about his safety after finding Darth Vader’s mask. 

To be honest, he was surprised that the nick to Ren’s ear after the fifth or sixth patch fell away with a sprinkling of grime was the first time he drew blood. It was the sudden realization his memories had melded with Ren’s that did it, crumpled his simmering composure enough to unsteady his hand. With a deep breath and a violent shake of his head, he thought of the paperwork waiting for him. Returning himself to the task at hand, he drew a pale finger over the lobe to wipe it out of his way, already scoping out the next bit of particularly nasty dried blood as he did so.

Ren flinched back like a wounded animal, his side wound spasming at the sudden pull on still raw flesh, teeth gnashing and a low rumble coming out of his mouth. His movements upstarted his chair, and Hux dropped the knife, slicing open a long elegant line down his exposed forearm, before falling with a metallic thud to the floor. The pale, freckled skin bloomed.

They stared at each other, both panting and staring at the blood of each of their fresh wounds. Ren’s side was dripping anew. Hux could feel his head dizzying at the amount of blood streaming down his arm. Each had a hand on the back of the chair, crouched, waiting for the other to make the first move. Ren was still vulnerable, his concentration so poor, so foolishly lost in the past, that the lingering images of Leia Organa stroking Ben Solo’s hair curled like tendrils of smoke with each ragged breath into Hux’s head. Finally the general let out a sharp laugh.

“I remind you of your mother, do I?” he said, almost punchdrunk at the thought. Besides being a general he had no idea what he could possibly have in common with the leader of the pathetic resistance. Except an unfortunate attachment to Ren, that is.

But the barrier was broken both ways, and Kylo heard every bit of Hux’s thoughts of his-- Ben Solo’s--mother. He snarled, pushing the chair out of both of their hands and pouncing forward. He had a hand on Hux’s throat, fingers already tight enough to bruise the vulnerable skin there. Hux choked out one more laugh before his windpipe closed and he was left crushed up against the knight, at his mercy. He maintained the eye contact, pleased the mask was gone so he could have a chance of winning this starring match, even if it meant his pupils would dilate and the blood vessels there would pop.

“Never,” Ren said, his voice all but a growl in his chest now, “underestimate the power of that woman. And you are nothing like her.” 

Ren dropped Hux to the floor. He landed on his knees and elbows, sputtering and choking back laughter and tears, because everything was so well and truly fucked, wasn’t it? As Ren stalked out, limping badly, they both knew he had lied. Something in Hux had stirred up that memory they now both shared. 

Hux coughed, staring at the pool of blood around him before clawing his way to the wall module to call for an emergency team from medbay to sew up his likely severed artery. “Send another along to Lord Ren’s quarters,” he said as an afterthought. 

  


Neither human nor droid orderly had asked about the half-hacked away hair on his head when they came to collect him. Despite walking two hallways over from Hux’s quarters, Kylo heard the general make the order. He no longer wanted to think of the damned wound on his hip, that had received Hux’s life-saving fingers, that had been inflected by someone who raised him on his shoulders. He wanted it gone. It was the past, like the base, like the man whom Ben Solo called father, like the hair on Kylo’s head.

He let the nervous droids do their work at his wound in the sanctity of his quarters. None of them asked about his other various injuries, all superfluous to this one, in the end. They didn’t dare. Finally, the restitching of the microlaser and the movement of the deep tissue stimulator ceased, and the droids and orderlies stepped back, all trying not to hurry away. Kylo didn’t bother looking at them, his eyes fixed on the window of the  _ Finalizer _ . The water from the planet had combusted, turning into huge haloes and nebulas of red that hugged like blood against the shards of hard rock from Starkiller Base. It might as well be the blood of Ben Solo’s father, or the still hot and sickeningly sweet blood of Leia Organa beating in her chest on D’Qar, caressing his face one last time. 

Kylo punched the mattress too hard at the thought. It left a dent that was likely a hole through the fabric. The medical team jumped as if on cue at his outburst. He fixed his black stare on the droid whom he’d solicited earlier--was it an hour, a day ago?--to barber his hair. It was braver, or maybe stupider, than the others. It stood at attention and asked if there was anything more that the Lord Ren desired. 

“Stay,” he growled. “The rest of you may leave.”

“Yes, my Lord Ren?” The droid waited to speak until the others left with their equipment under various limbs. Kylo let out a breath like an animal on the hunt.

“Cut my hair.”

“Oh, yes, of course my Lord. I just wonder--”

“What?”

“Well, it seemed to displease you last time. I do not wish to repeat a foolish mistake.”

“Just shave off the bits that have been cut already.”

“Ah, yes, my Lord. A very unique style, though one I see often among the Corellians, I am told.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Yes, yes of course my Lord.”

“And one more thing.”

“Y-yes, Lord Ren?”

“Keep most of the length, will you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem "Letter to J." by Mark Wunderlich:
> 
> "Your teeth have left their impress on my thigh. When you hurt me, I press my face  
> to the pillow and do my sums. Two wings and a feathery heart do not add up to  
> bird. Fathers and sons continue to multiply."
> 
> Edit: I forgot to mention, if you'd like to leave me comments or talk about the story/kylux at all, feel free to follow or message me on tumblr at darthtanttrum.tumblr.com !


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